


Lydia's Little Earthquakes

by limenitis_arthemis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Happy ending for Allison/Lydia, Little Earthquakes (Album) - Tori Amos, Other: See Story Notes, Peter does not get a happy ending, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limenitis_arthemis/pseuds/limenitis_arthemis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia's long struggle for agency over her mind, her body, and her magic.</p><p>Structured around the Tori Amos album "Little Earthquakes."</p><p>"Doesn't take much to rip us into pieces."</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crucify

**Author's Note:**

> ***  
> Most chapters can be read on their own and out of order. Check notes for each chapter for content warnings and change in style, rating, and tone. Generally canon compliant through Season 2.  
> The major character death will be Peter. 
> 
> Part 2 of the eventual Myriad Fates Series [Part 1 - Sheriff John Stilinski, Mama Stilinski, Carol Martin Part 3- Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Where are those angels  
> When you need them?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written as a series of vignettes. It takes place over Seasons 1+2 and largely serves as a prologue to the main story-line.
> 
>  
> 
> Content Warning- Imagined rape. See end note for details. Let me know if I should add/edit any warnings or tags. Peter graphically dreams about Hale Family fire..

  
Crucify

 

Everyone is staring at her. Damn right they are. She’s Lydia Martin.

Lydia is no cheerleader, but that didn't stop her from taking advantage of her sister’s legacy as squad captain to cement her position at the top of the BHHS social hierarchy or from wearing her old uniform to bed when Jackson asked her to.

So, there’s no need for her to cry, or defend herself, or spit in anyone's face. This is her school and she’s better now. The fugue state was just a physiological reaction caused by blood loss and shock. She’s better now.  She’s fine. She’s better than fine.

“I lost nine pounds!”

Lydia Martin is not a victim.

***

Lydia dreams of damp earth, swampy water, hair falling out in the shower. She wakes up gasping for air, with tears and snot wet on her face. She pulls her blanket tight over her shoulders and breathes in lemongrass fabric softener, while Prada’s tongue licks against her cheek. Her hair is red but her eyes are green.

Peter dreams of flame. Acrid scent of burning hair, melting flesh. He hears tendons popping, fat sizzling like bacon grease. The blood in his veins dry and hard, crumbles around his veins rather than spurts. He wakes up gasping for air, sucks in mouthfuls but it still tastes of ash, scorches in his lungs.  His eyes are blue but his skin is grey.

***

Lydia walks through the preserve, but she’s missing something. _The flower_ , she doesn’t have the flower. Yellow eyes flash at her in the darkness and she spots matching flowers dangling from a willow branch. She climbs up, bare feet wrapped around the trunk. She breaks a nail,. She climbs out over the river, reaching. _Ruta graveolens,_ a way to get rid of her problem, to force this foreign being from her body. _No, that’s not quite right_. As the branch cracks in half she remembers. _Blue eyes_. Blue eyes, blue flower. She plunges into the water.

She may be half mad, she may be drowning, but she will not be playing the role of Ophelia tonight. She kicks her way to the surface.

***

When he strode across the field her mind had told her that he was going to rape her. Years of media images and statistics and just living as a woman had taught her to expect _be prepared_ that when a strange man approached her he would want one thing and he might take it whether she chose to give it or not. In that moment she imagined how he would wrap his arm around from behind, that he would cover her mouth with his hand, silencing her cries. He would drag her by her hair behind the bleachers, push up the silver satin of her dress, and rip off her grey cotton thong. He would hold her down by her shoulder and open his pants just enough to pull out his heavy cock and slide it up her thigh, push his way into her.

The prickle up her spine reminded her of that night at the video store, that night when their routine – the one where she pretends to want to watch ludicrous tripe and Jackson pretends that he doesn’t need the sap to get off– was so rudely interrupted by that B-movie quality monster, that hulking black mutant of a mountain lion.

Her nipples hardened but she could blame that on the cool night air. She called out; trying to hope it might just be Jackson but already knowing that it wasn’t.

When he captured her he climbed up her back, she felt the hard press of his dick through his pants. His breath was hot on the back of her neck, he smelled of sweat and woods and blood and smoke. Even as she screamed, nails digging into the dirt, heart pounding in terror, she felt herself grow wet in expectation.

She had determined that he planned to tear her apart. The surprise was in the implementation. She hadn’t known to factor teeth and claws into the calculation.

***

Lydia has always believed in reason, in explanations. But nobody will tell her anything. They convince her to go here, come there. Stiles, who thinks that because he was perceptive enough to pick up on her obvious brilliance that he somehow knows her. He says he knows how smart she really is yet thinks she’s foolish enough to believe their lies. He thinks that he can protect her, rescue her. But she doesn’t need a savior. She doesn’t need anyone to throw her a life jacket, she can swim perfectly well on her own, thank you very much. She just wants someone to tell her where this damn flood is coming from.

She tries to ask for a logical explanation for why her boyfriend _exboyfriend_ , _exboyfriend_ , _you know this_ turned into a freaking lizard and gets a bunch of babble about love.

She walks the streets at night. Sometimes she sets out deliberately; following the blue jeep, the Camaro, Scott on his bike, working out her own explanations. And then there are the times she wakes up in dirty sheets, calves aching, leaves in her hair, and the soles of her feet torn up by rocks. Though she remembers nothing, that’s when the answers feel the closest.

***

Those big blue eyes were notable but ultimately irrelevant. His words were not nearly as clever as he imagined them to be. No matter what she may play at, she’s not one to actually fall for the boys’ simple games. The clue that should have told her something was wrong was the very thing that made her want to trust him.

Prada never likes anyone. She’d have to crate her every time Jackson came over or else she’d just stand there and growl at them the whole time. She’d run in circles and start barking anytime they started to touch each other. It wasn’t a coincidence- she’d conducted trials and charted the results. Prada even gets nippy when her mother tries to snap her collar on. So when he walked into her yard, carrying Prada under his arm, totally content, tail wiggling, her instincts told her to trust him. She should know to always hold reason and logic over feeling.

Prada never likes anyone.

***

Her mother sends her to the counselor. Her father tells her to pray. The stand on either side of her, looking as though they’d rather be hanged than have to spend any more time together.

When her mother comes to wake her up for school, the alcohol on her breath smells stale, just traces of red wine from the night before. After she pulls back Lydia’s covers and sees the blood, her mother pulls her closes, says all of the right things, and cleans the slivers of mirror out of the cuts on her knuckles. But Carol’s eyes keep darting to the bedspread, the carpet, the feather pillows, checking to see what has been stained and will need to be replaced. Later, when she sends her out the door her goodbye kiss is overly minty, the scent of tequila underneath strong and fresh.

***

No one else is allowed to judge Lydia Martin- She does it too well herself. Nothing she does will ever be good enough. This makes it really hard to like anyone else since she knows she is still better than them. She likes Allison though, when she’s not talking about Scott or talking _to_ Jackson. Her archery skills are impressive, but unappealing. Lydia has no interest in becoming a foot soldier. She always imagined that if she needed to go to war she’d be the one sitting in a luxurious bunker, pressing the red button.

***

Everyone is staring at her. But this is wrong. They’re laughing, they’re pointing.

This is can not really be happening.

She’s Lydia Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In one vignette she remembers Peter's attack after the winter formal, Lydia imagined that she was going to be raped and the scene is described in an erotic manner. There are also mentions of involuntary physical reactions to this that the narrative encourages the reader to misinterpret as arousal. 
> 
>  
> 
> ***  
> If anyone is into this and wants to beta that would be fantastic. Send me a note through limenitis-arthemis.tumblr.com


	2. Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And in the shadow she finds a way"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. No major warnings in this chapter, I think. Please let me know if I've forgotten something. There are allusions to "bad things" that Lydia did before and a suggestion of what finally happens to Peter.

Girl -[ live performance video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMoEnTFVmbk)

 

She knows it'sa cliché, but Stanford is the new beginning that Lydia’s been looking for.

She forms easy friendships with girls, based neither on their boyfriend's athletic careers nor the need to defend against supernatural enemies.

She dates, as much as anyone in college actually dates. She finds herself attracted to her professors and then is disappointed when they are just men underneath their brilliant reputations. Middle-aged men, dissatisfied in their marriages because they’re too pigheaded to actually listen when their wives tell them what they want and not clever enough to figure out what they’re really asking for on their own. Men who expect her to be awed and grateful just because they manage to find her clit. Men who just recycle work they did in grad school and can’t really offer her any new intellectual insights.

Mostly though, she studies. She stops obscuring her intelligence; she has enough other things to hide now. 

To her roommate, she passes off her weapons and books and potions as her nerdy step-brother’s, says he’s part of a live action role playing community that battles mythical creatures. That part’s not even a lie, even if Stiles is dressing better and has a hot older boyfriend, he’s still a complete dork.

But spells and werewolves are no mystery back home these days. Her remaining secrets there are darker and she speaks about them with no one, not even in a whisper.

***

It is during her Christmas break sophomore year that she begins to seek out Peter for comfort. It’s not something that she plans, or allows herself to think about too hard. The truth is that she’s just lonely. Her mother and the Sheriff have gone to Virginia for to visit some relative she’s never met, her sister with her new husband’s family in Boston. Everyone else has gone to Park City, but Prada’s been ill and she doesn’t completely trust a sitter to remember her medication. There’s also the way all the couples won’t stop groping each other long enough to carry on a conversation. Technically Isaac and Danny aren’t together yet, but that’s only a matter of time. Boyd’s staying behind too- he can’t afford the trip and no matter how much Derek insists that it’s proper as Alpha, he refuses to accepts any sort of charity- but she can’t imagine what they could possibly have to talk about. He’s a great fighter and steadying influence on his fellow betas, but certainly not much of a conversationalist. The idea of connecting with someone outside of their circle just seems exhausting.

So, after almost two years of avoiding him, she drives up to Peter’s apartment. Once he lets her in he immediately lowers his head and makes to head for the table. Instead she grabs his hand, says, “Wait,” and tries to show that she’s sorry, that though he’s not forgiven, she wants him differently now, not just to punish him but because it will make her feel better.

She still has to ride him, not quite ready to feel his body looming over hers, but this time she looks down at his face instead of straight ahead. “I still hate you,” she says and he can hear in her heartbeat that she’s not lying, “but I couldn’t find anyone else who would want me.” And that’s true too.

Of course, many fall easily for her soft young body, her glorious strawberry blond hair, her classic movie star face. Others will respect her mind, her strength, her sass, her keen fashion sense. But there’s no one else with whom could she share the things she’s done, the poisoned blood that floods her veins, or her shadowy fantasies, without them looking at her with horror, or worse, pity. It’s not that she and Peter are the _same_ ; what she’s done can’t be calibrated to the same scale as his crimes. She’s not far gone enough to believe that their even now. But there’s really no one else who could see all that and understand. No once else who will see her damage and not want her in spite of it, but want her because of it.

***

Junior year, she changes her major from theoretical mathematics and bio-chemical engineering to Classical Studies. It’s not that she would say it’s easier exactly; every discipline poses its own challenges. But she certainly will be better able to manage physically; translations and analyses are easier on swollen ankles than titrating in the lab for hours.

***

 “Trust me, I have a unique perspective on the subject,” he’d said.

Peter has a fixation on smooth fair skin- Melissa, Allison, soft and unblemished, so different than what he’d been forced to look at in the mirror all of those years. But this is even better.

“Your scars are so beautiful. I spent a lot of years staring at myself in the mirror, hideous, deformed. But you,” he kisses along the pale silver streaks on her torso. “If I’d known, if I ever could have imagined it would look like this, I would have drawn my claws across your face and down your arms, clamped my jaw around your thighs and nibbled at your shoulders until you were fully branded. The evidence of how I hurt you would always be on display. There could never be a moment of hiding from what happened.”

“You don’t want to forget? You’re proud that you nearly mauled me to death when I was fifteen?” she says irritably but without real heat. She fucked out all of her rage years ago.

“Of course, Lydia. I did what was necessary.” She frowns at his condescending tone, he should know better than to speak to her that way. “If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here together now. This has always been our fate.”

“I don’t believe in destiny,” she says, but lets him continue to trace patterns in her skin.

***

It’s not enough to make her fall in love with him, but Lydia begins to enjoy Peter’s company around the time she finds the home movies hidden behind his surprisingly vanilla porn collection. Peter sailing with his older brother, Peter’s childhood violin recitals, Peter and Karen’s wedding. The videos are of a Peter that she knows is gone, but his good taste and education and financial resources remain.  She can ask him to take her to San Francisco when _Thaïs_ is being put on without needing to explain to him who Massenet is.

***

After Peter’s gone, Lydia’s head clears for the first time since the night of the winter formal. She sends Stiles a text letting him know that Peter’s remains are bound in the garden shed. He’ll figure out the rest.

She picks up Caleb from her mother’s house and drives to the coast. She rents a small motel room and hibernates there for days. It’s Stiles who figures out where she went, of course he did, but it’s Allison who comes to get her.

Lydia senses her coming from the car. Still sitting on the chair where she’s rubbing the boy’s back and shushing him to sleep, she mutters a few words to unlock the door and let down her wards. Allison knows enough to enter quietly and wait until she’s managed to put him to bed.

Then they both force smiles and hug as if this were a holiday visit. They sit on the sofa and chat about the weather and the drive and Caleb’s developmental milestones, but Lydia can tell that the other girl is studying her state of mind closely. She supposes she comes off as stable enough because she finally brings up Peter.

“We should have a funeral,” Allison tells her. “Despite everything, Derek will feel better to have a proper goodbye. And you should be there, for later, when Caleb asks”

“And Stiles wants to practice the rituals.” Lydia says matter-of-factly and Allison looks ashamed.

“I didn’t mean it as an accusation. It’s a good idea. He _should_ learn how. Peter’s a good test case so he that he’ll already know what he’s doing for when it’s someone the pack actually cares about.” She moves to sit on the bed, her back to the room.

“Lydia,” Allison says, reaching for her shoulder, “Come on. You know it’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it though?” she asks, still facing the wall.

“It’s not that we don’t care about him exactly. He is pack. Things aren’t always comfortable, but we all manage to be in the same room together on occasion. And I wouldn’t go so far to say that he redeemed himself, but everyone saw how he was with you now, how he was with Caleb. It’s really not like it was, not anymore.”

“But maybe it should be. All these years I thought I had taken back control. All the things I did just to prove that I could. And the whole time-” she cuts off and turns around. She lets Allison hold her hands but keeps her eyes pinned to the wall sconce, just to the left of the painting of a halibut.

“I did things, sick, horrible things, and that’s how I knew what I was capable of. Even though I thought that I was punishing him and knew that he deserved it all I still believed what it was about telling me about who I am, telling me that I was the type of person who could do those sorts of things.”

Allison keeps her expression neutral, stops herself from asking and just waits until Lydia’s ready to continue. Everyone knew that something had sparked the change between her and Peter Something more than Jackson leaving. More than just time and years spent fighting on the same side. But even Stiles had known better than to look too closely at what brought them together. As much as the relationship had disturbed them all, they’d also not wanted to break the bond it added to the pack structure. Their mating had freed Derek from being solely responsible for his uncle’s connection to the group. It had been easier for all of them just to follow Lydia’s lead.

“But he was still inside of me,” she adds carefully. “Now that he’s gone I can feel his absence.”

“Maybe you miss him?” Allison suggests, ever the romantic.

“Oh please,” Lydia rolls her eyes and attempts to use her tight chipper sarcastic voice. “It’s Peter, he was a psychotic…”  Her voice wavers a bit. “He made me have these thoughts, but, I loved him anyway. I hate him for that. I never forgot who he was, what he’d done. But my heart still took him in. I hate myself for that.” She shakes her head at the thought and drops down onto the stained pullout couch.

She’s not quite crying. She’s still too exhausted, too raw for that. Then Caleb wakes up with a cry and the moment’s gone.

*

Allison forces her to get properly dressed and they walk to the beach. Grab fish tacos for dinner and eat them on the pier while Caleb attempts to squawk at the seagulls. That night Lydia nurses him to sleep side-lying while Allison curls around her back. The taller girl’s limbs wrapping around tight.

Lydia cries then, but not for Peter. She gave him all the tears he deserved when she said goodbye. Now she mourns the life that was taken away the moment he first touched her. She weeps for the Fields medal she’ll never earn and the healthy relationships she’ll never have. She cries for what she was forced to do in the end.

Allison just holds her closer, hands her clean terry flat to wipe her eyes with, strokes her hair and traces patterns on her arm with her smooth, rounded nails. When Lydia stills Allison ducks her head whispers into her neck, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry that we didn’t stop this, so sorry that I can’t go back and change this for you.”

“No,” Lydia says in a voice that’s hushed but still potent with conviction. “I can’t be sorry that this happened.”

She rolls onto her back so that Allison can see her face, just barely visible in the light sneaking through the edges of the window. “I’m sad. And I’m angry, believe me, I’m angry at Peter and at myself and at the world. But I can never ever wish what happened, this life I’ve had, away.” And she pulls her warm bundle of little boy in closer to her side.

And there’s nothing to say to that. Not really. So Allison just settles back down into the mattress and goes back to stroking her hair until they both fall asleep.

*

In the morning she wakes up to find Allison bouncing Caleb around the room, softly singing, “please don’t stop the music,” and she smiles. Maybe not the most appropriate song but he’s too young to understand and it was their jam sophomore year.

“So how soon do you have to head back?” she asks.

“I’ve got one class Monday, but I can skip it. I should be back by Tuesday though; I have a shift at the clinic and a seminar,” Allison answers. “I need you to come with me though. If I stay a few more days you have to promise me. You can’t stay out here by yourself. If…if you’re not ready to talk about what happened I won’t make you.” The, “yet,” is even louder for having been left unsaid.

***

She remembers that one line he’d repeat to her,  _Rien n'est vrai que la vie et que l'amour des être..._  Maybe the details won’t matter to her in the end; how it started, who created what. But something inside her still wants to see.

In the end it’s that movie, the one with the red-haired archer that Caleb watches over and over that convinces her to try it. Sometimes she gets irritated by the brogue but she understands the appeal of imagining that his mother would be turned into a bear, she’s one of very few adults in his life who isn’t a shape shifter. _If you had a chance to change your fate, would you?_ It’s not the first time she considered it, but hearing those lines over and over make it inescapable. _Your fate lies inside yourself._ She begins to research, to gather, to plan.

*

“Are you sure this is safe, Lydia?”

“Just close the circle when I tell you to. If I don’t come out of it within a few hours then you can break it and pull me up. If you cut through the wreath of bluebell if should be enough to bring me back. There’s a jar of iron shavings in the armoire if I try to fight you. But I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“Are you sure this is what you want? You know it won’t actually change anything, right? It might make you feel worse?”

“We’ve been over this Stiles, I know this isn't time travel. But I need to know everything else that could have been, even if it hurts. I have to try and figure out what was him and what’s just me.”

 

It won’t make everything right but maybe it will make it her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh. I can't seem to get satisfied with this part, but I need to move on and maybe come back when I've gotten further along. Still hoping to find a Beta someday.
> 
> *Meditation from Thaïs, the Opera Lydia and Peter attend. http://youtu.be/m2yyNSUoe3E
> 
> *The spell mentioned at the end of this chapter is our introduction to Lydia's B-Sides. I'll be posting a couple of her visions within the next few days.


	3. Silent All These Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia remembers when she started holding it in. But more importantly, she learns what happens when she lets it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for specific details regarding the noncon warning. Let me know if I should add anything else. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to werewolvesdontexist for beta work. She tried valiantly to wrangle my sentences and insert ands at the appropriate spaces but alas they ran off again. I also made a number of other changes after, so any errors are definitely my own.   
> Thank you to verity for your input and keriarentikai for the Greek History & Latin expertise.  
> And Betp for the most gorgeous art work. (NSFW) http://soupstain.tumblr.com/post/76867009143/nsfw-commission-by-al-allison-and-lydia-have

3.         "Silent All These Years"         <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LvvCpxddcwc>

_Excuse me but can I be you for a while?_

Lydia remembers exactly when she started holding it in.

She remembers when she silenced her voice, masked her face, and began hiding her thoughts behind calculated inanities and idle flattery.

 

It was seventh grade, she was organizing lab equipment in the closet, hidden in the back of the science teacher’s room, and two boys came in to grab their text books.

“That stupid bitch.”

“Yeah. Wait. Who?”

“Lydia, fuckin know-it-all, Martin,” answered the first boy. Jason, maybe? She’d known that he was a baseball player, that his older sister coordinated the tutoring program where Lydia volunteers on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. “She made me look like an idiot in class.”

“Yeah, I’d still do her though,” remarked the second, offhandedly. He’s Colin, her fifth grade library buddy. She’d heard he ate out Darcy Carmichael in the auditorium balcony during the sixth-grade’s performance of “The Miracle Worker.”

“Naw, man. No way.”

“She’s got a nice ass, good tits.”

“OK. Point. And she might finally shut up if I shoved my dick down her throat.”

They laughed as they grabbed their books and slipped into a discussion about their history quiz as easily as they walked out of the room. The color drained from Lydia’s face as it hit her how casually they’d ripped her apart and moved on, not sparing another moment for the girl in braided pigtails who had never learned _not_ to raise her hand after every question, how they’d go about the rest of their day not even realizing that they’d both rooted her to the spot and chopped down every branch she’d spent twelve years heartily growing.

Lydia waited until the door clicked shut behind them to sink to the cold linoleum floor. She stared at empty beakers and litmus strips. She didn’t cry. She’d refused to cry. Instead she planned.

Those boys were idiots, clearly. But they were the idiots that everyone else followed. They were the idiots with power. They were the idiots who made the real rules at that school. She knew she couldn’t change the game, but she could study it, practice, and learn how to win.

Her mother’s oft-ignored words echoed through her head, with new relevance: _Never frown, someone could be falling in love with your smile._

She got back to her feet and pinched her cheeks until they looked pink and healthy again. She plastered on a pleasant expression, walked back into the classroom and then out into the hall.

 

*

 

Lydia had planned to go as Hypatia of Alexandria for Halloween that year. She’d read Maria Dzielska’s treatment of her life and accomplishments over summer vacation and was now infatuated with the Neoplatonist lecturer and mathematician.

She’d initially collected pottery shards and considered going as a post-mutilation version of the philosopher, it would be fittingly grotesque for the holiday. But, realizing that she’d rather bring attention to her achievements, she began a mock-up of Hypatia’s version of a plane astrolabe. The silver instrument now sat on her desk, the nearly perfect rendering ready for what would probably be her last year of trick-or-treating.

Instead she bought a pushup bra, left  her hair down, and went as a “sexy mermaid.” Her mother helped her put on her makeup, told her that she looked beautiful, said she was so proud that Lydia had finally started taking an interest in her appearance.

 

***

 

She stops raising her hand in class, covers her grade when her math test is handed back, just giggles when the guy behind her in Spanish class snaps her bra when he’s supposed to be conjugating -ar verbs. She gets asked to parties, borrows her sister’s heels, lets that asshole Jason feel her up in a closet at New Year’s.

 

***

_My dog won’t bite if you sit real still_

Dating Jackson is the triumphant final act of a pageant years in the making.

Strategically, he is the perfect boyfriend. Captain of the lacrosse team, rich, impeccably groomed, and, most importantly, easy to manipulate due to his crippling insecurities and obsession with outward achievement. Yes, she does have to put up with his deficiencies in certain areas, but she manages to find a way to make it work for her.

Jackson wasn’t a virgin, but he certainly hadn’t managed to learn anything from his experiences. Eventually she does teach him how to get her off and he fares well enough at executing what’s needed, even if he does lack any creativity or intuitive variation. She devotes herself to pleasing him with her mouth. Letting him hold her head down at the end even when she’s almost choking. Making sure to blink away any tears and plaster a big smile on her face while he’s still blissed out, so he never notices how much she really doesn’t like that part. But at least if he comes that way first he can last long enough for her to orgasm again while they’re fucking. She’d rather just take care of herself before or after, but it’s important for Jackson’s ego that she come while he’s inside her. Despite this, he doesn’t like her to make too much noise. Says she wails like a banshee. So she learns to stay silent, and just whisper to him that she’s coming.

By the time he breaks up with her she’s so cemented her position in the BHHS hierarchy that losing him is no problem. Politically, that is. She is dismayed to discover that losing him is a problem for her. Despite her best efforts she apparently has developed feelings for him. Of course, if she could know what’s coming, she wouldn’t consider a few misguided emotions the greatest threat to her wellbeing.

 

****

 

_I’ve got the anti-christ in the kitchen yelling at me again._

 

With Peter she controls everything. She makes choices based on what will make him feel worse rather than what will make her feel better. For nearly a year she comes to him like this. No contact except when she seeks him out. No conversation outside of her commands. In the beginning she uses magic to protect herself and to make sure Peter does as directed. Soon though it’s clear she doesn’t need it. Peter will submit to her every time.

He never acts like he’s becoming conditioned to enjoy it.  But maybe he’s coming to understand why he needs to do this. For her, for himself, perhaps to satisfy some karmic demand. Not that he has a shot at redemption, not that this would be the way to earn it anyway. But on a more primal level, it allows her to reclaim what has been taken from her- electricity, blood, autonomy. And as it drains from him, Peter gets to be less afraid, less angry, because in that moment he truly has nothing left to lose.

Or maybe she gives him too much credit and he just knows it’s not worth trying to fight her anymore. 

*

 

Eventually Lydia learns how to extract his memories. She pulls them out and watches; his daughter’s first day of kindergarten, getting fucked by the side of the road by a middle aged Gerard while a ten-year-old Kate sits in the car, prank calling Derek at 2am, dumping his nurse’s body into his trunk.

She doesn’t know what to do with them. She really doesn’t want to know these things about him. She just wants him to know that she can take these from him. That she can take anything she wants.

 

**

 

Lydia spends months ignoring the hints Peter drops. Mentions of mating ceremonies, becoming a family forever, even suggestions of love. When she finally proposes to him, she insists that it’s not a response to his overtures.  She wants to guarantee her child’s position in the family, his rights to their property, to the Hale legacy. There other legal arrangements she could choose, of course. But this gives her the most straightforward claim on everything that belongs to Peter.

She refuses the elaborate engagement party, but accepts a ring. She nixes any sort of reception after the simple courthouse ceremony, but agrees to go out of town with him for a few days as long as he doesn’t actually refer to it as a honeymoon.

 

*

 

“You have duck lips,” he says.

“Shut up! I do not have duck lips.”

“You do, but I love your duck lips.”

“Call them duck lips one more time and we’ll just see if you ever get to feel them wrapped around your cock again,” she threatens, more because she enjoys the fighting than from taking actual offense at his words.

“Ok, ok. You win. You don’t have duck lips.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender as he backs off the bed. “Now wait right here, I’m going to go fix some waffles and you can eat them while I stare at your not-at-all-duck-like lips.”

Lydia sinks back into the soft white bedding, relishing the clean minimalist look of the condo that won’t be possible in her own home anytime soon. Piles of toys and cloth diapers have already taken over the living room, even though she won't deliver for three at least months. She feels content and relaxed; staying in La Jolla has given her the freedom to forget the reality of their situation, to give into this charade of the happy newlyweds. And Peter, he’s a revelation.  Although, if she’s fair, he’s been trying to care for her this way for months. This is just the first time she let herself pretend to not know who he really is long enough for him to actually do it.

 

She gets up to use the bathroom, slips Peter’s shirt over her head, where it would have once engulfed her small frame, now it pulls tight across her swollen belly. On her way back to bed she ducks into the closet, notices the small black case sitting askew on the shelf. She opens it to find two knives, one gun, powdered wolfsbane, a stake of mountain ash. _All right_ , she thinks, everything is still there.

She climbs back into bed and smiles, remembering their dolphin encounter the day before. The animals had kept far away from Peter but circled in on Lydia’s middle and then blew bubbles approvingly. While floating in the water, the extra weight no longer stressed her hip joints or put strain on her back. A blessed relief. But then she insisted in wearing heels to dinner, lower than what she’s used to, but still enough to make him fuss over her. Peter’s promised they can go to the Museum of Contemporary Art this afternoon as long as she takes it easy this morning. The smell of breakfast wafting from the efficiency kitchen and the softness of the duvet convince her that it won’t be too much of a hardship to indulge him on that.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

_Yeah I can hear that_

“Hey, can I borrow a night shirt?” Lydia asks Allison, seven weeks after they’ve started sleeping together.

“Second drawer in the dresser.”

She digs through old BHHS Lacrosse Jerseys and Blink182 tees.  “Allison!”

“What?”

“These are Scott’s.”

“Yeah.” Allison gives a puzzled little smile that makes her eyes squint and Lydia can hardly stand how adorable she looks. But, she can’t let this go unaddressed. She’s with done holding her tongue.

“Why are you still wearing your ex-husband’s clothes?”

“Technically, he’s still my husband.”

“Allison! You’re not helping.” Lydia starts to pout.

Allison pulls at Lydia’s towel, where it’s tucked in tightly above her breasts. Her hair’s darker, still wet like this, and there’s a smear of night cream above her left temple. “You know he’s gone. He’s not going to come back and try to take me away.”

“Yeah?”

“And even if he did, I wouldn’t go. It’s you & me, now. I’m not leaving you.” She bends her head down, rubs her lips against Lydia’s neck.

 Lydia smiles and pushes the drawer shut behind her with her foot. “You know,” she says, tapping her finger to her chin, “I don’t really think I need to that night shirt after all.”

 “No?” Allison tries affect a look of innocence but her eyes darken and her breath catches as she gazes at Lydia’s mouth.

“I really don’t think I need to wear anything to bed tonight at all.”

Lydia reaches up and cups Allison’s chin. She pulls their mouths together and uses her other hand to loosen her towel. She sighs and drops her head back as Allison’s hands come up and cup her breasts, still warm and damp. She pushes down at Allison’s grey sweatpants and urges her to take them off. They fumble their way over to the bed, Lydia’s hands gripping tight.

“Maybe if I keep you trapped in this bed for a week straight it might ease my mind a little. I won’t have to worry about you running away while I’m riding your face.”

“Lydia!” Allison exclaims, prepared to act the scandalized school girl, but then there are wet lips on her own, a playful tongue dancing into her mouth, and a firm hand pressing on her cunt. As she feels her orgasm already starting to build, she quickly remembers why she’s glad not to be a teenager anymore.

 

*

 

“Are you on one of those extended cycle versions of the pill?” Lydia asks Allison after breakfast. She’s only marginally successful in her attempt to sound casual, but Allison doesn’t note the undercurrent of concern. She’s focused on the jigsaw puzzle that is the top rack of their dishwasher, valiantly attempting to fit in just _one more_ oversized mug.

“No, why? Worried about knocking me up?” she jokes.

“No, silly. It’s just you haven’t had your period since we started doing this. I was wondering how you’d managed that.”

“Oh, I haven’t in months. When Scott left I lost my appetite. Plus I was so stressed out I got sick a lot. So, I figured it was just amenorrhea from losing weight. Used to happen all the time back when I was in training.”

“But, you’re better now, right? You’re eating, you’ve filled out again. Do you think, maybe...?” Lydia lets it hang there, not risking putting the actual words out into the cosmos.

“No. No. There’s no way.” She tries to sound determined but she can’t manage.

Lydia’s already got the car keys in hand by the time Allison admits she’d like to go to the drugstore.

 

*

 

Scott does come back.

He tries to get Allison to give their marriage another shot. He tries to convince himself and her that it’s the right thing to do. Lydia tries not to cry as she tells Allison she’ll understand if she wants to move back in with him. 

Allison stays.

 

**

 

“I can’t believe your glove compartment. Such a mess,” Lydia complains as she paws through the accumulated trash in Allison’s car.

“Well, excuse me. I remember back when Caleb was little, you weren’t doing much better.”

“That was a little bit different. My co-parent was Peter. You have Scott. Not the same.”

“Scott is an amazing father, that doesn’t mean he’s going to clean my car out for me.”

“Fine! I’m just saying it wouldn’t kill you to sort through this mess once in a while. You’ve got nearly twenty-five dollars in change mixed up in this pile of cheddar bunnies.”

“Stop fussing at me and buckle your seat belt. We’ve got to leave now if we want to get there before Michaela’s game starts,” Allison admonishes.

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t get out of the shower in time,” Lydia teases.

“It is 100% your fault. I was doing just fine until you decided to climb in and help.”

“Not that you were complaining,” Lydia cuts in.

“Not that I was complaining,” she laughs, “but still, totally your fault. Now let’s go.”

 

****

_I hear my voice  And it's been here  Silent All These Years_

Allison sits on the back patio with twin glasses of too-sweet Moscato. White blond is creeping into Lydia’s long braid, but from a distance it still looks as red as ever against the cerulean stucco of their small house. She reaches a hand up to set off the wind chimes hanging from the trellis that supports yellow orchid vine and hacienda creeper.

“Did you think we’d ever get here?” Lydia asks as she sits by Allison’s knees and takes a glass.

“Where, Arizona? It’s not that far from California.”

“No, silly. I mean _us_ here, now you and me, two old crones together.”

“A crone? You’re really calling me crone?” Allison smile belies her offended posturing.

“I’ll have you know crone is a title of honor. Accept it. You are a beautiful old crone and I love you.” She leans over and kisses Allison firmly on the mouth. “But did you?” she asks again as she draws back, “Did you consider this was possible?”

“I didn’t know. I’d never had a friend for longer than a year before, we moved around so much. I couldn’t conceive of something this lasting. Even in the beginning with Scott, when we were head over heels, I was always counting on an ending.”

“Things always change. We have to choose to hold on through the changes.” 

“Pulling out the really deep thoughts tonight, honey,” Allison teases.

Lydia sticks her tongue out in return.

“Oh yes, clearly you have reached the stage in your life where you should be revered for your wisdom and maturity.”

Lydia would retaliate, but she’s distracted by Allison’s dimples.

 

**

 

“I wanted to hold your hand that day.” Allison offers one morning, a secret held back among the many they’d shared.

“Which day?”

“When we went back to school. You know, after your fugue state, when Kate was all over the papers. I wanted to take your hand when we walked in, but I was too scared to ask.”

“I probably wouldn’t have let you,” Lydia admits, a bit embarrassed now about how much pretending she used to do. “I didn’t know how to let you in back then.”

“It’s ok,” Allison says, smiling over at her, “I’d say you’ve made up for it.”

 

*

Lydia hasn’t worn heels in years, most days she chooses linen pants and tunics with canvas flats. Allison tends to favor long sundresses and leather thongs. They both prefer to sit around in bathrobes with bare feet if they have the option.

 

**

 

After all these years Allison still manages to take her breathe away. For all Stiles’ idiotic jokes about lesbian bed death, Lydia’s never lost her eagerness to feel her wife’s hands on her body, her tongue between her legs.  Sure there’s been some ebb and flow. They’d had to make some adjustments while they each went through the change, and after Allison’s mastectomy it had taken some time for Lydia to convince her that she was still as attracted as before. But now they’re in a really good place again; they both work hard to make time for intimacy, to drop special touches and sensual words into their daily routine.

Allison’s been busy editing all day, sitting at the large oak desk she inherited from her father. Lydia keeps sneaking up behind her, whispering wicked words into her ears, planting kisses along her collar, working the kinks out of her shoulders with still strong hands. At six she goes in and makes Allison put away her work for the night, dragging her into the kitchen for dinner. It’s broiled salmon and brown rice, kale salad, roasted squash, nothing complicated, but Lydia insists on feeding her every bite.

 

After, Lydia pulls her to the couch, settles Allison in between her legs, head dropped back on the round swell of Lydia’s breasts. Lydia rubs her temples, cards her fingers through her pixie cut as she talks about how Caleb’s daughter is coming along with her diving, the wool slippers she’s thinking of ordering, her progress proving the Bhattacharya Theorem. Allison slides her hands behind her, around Lydia’s neck, and  lifts her torso until she can reach her lips, soft and tasting of the pinot grigio they’d shared.

Their bodies fit together differently now than they used to. Lydia’s thighs and belly have rounded over the years. Allison stays thin and hard, doing pilates and running early in the morning before the desert heat kicks in. But still they find their way with each other easily, like the vine grows around the tree even as the tree bends to the vine.

Lydia sends Allison off to shower and gets herself ready for bed.

 

Tonight Lydia’s wearing the dark blue slip with the black lace trim. Allison doesn’t bother getting dressed, comes into the bedroom with her hair tousled from her towel, eyes sparkling in anticipation. Her surgical scars are all but hidden by Artemis, goddess of the hunt and a rain of arrows crossing to the opposite shoulder, where a crescent moon nestles under her collar bone. Lydia pushes Allison down onto the bed and straddles her waist. She traces the outline of the tattoo with her tongue, mouths her way up her neck, kisses her deeply. She gently grabs her short grey hair and then drops down to suck her remaining nipple into her mouth.

 Allison slides her hand up under the silky material of the slip and squeezes at Lydia’s full bottom. Her long fingers slip into her crack and slide down to where she’s already wet, having spent hours thinking about this moment. Allison slides her fingers through the light hairs on her lips, cups her hand around her cunt, teases at the top of her slit without touching her clit directly yet. Lydia wiggles out of reach, whispers to Allison that she just wants to focus on her for now. She shifts back and plants kisses across her torso, moves down until her face is buried between Allison’s legs and she can dig her fingers into those muscular thighs.

Lydia pulls out the lube and warms some between her fingers before sliding them around Allison’s cunt. Once she’s wet Lydia blows against her and then follows up with tiny little licks all over. She presses one finger inside, adds some more lube and then slides in another. She nibbles on the skin at the creases at the top of Allison’s legs and pumps her fingers deep inside. Once Allison’s breathing starts to indicate that she’s close, Lydia sucks her clit into her mouth, crooks her fingers upwards, rubbing circles inside her. Allison’s not a screamer, just whimpers when she comes, but Lydia feels her contracting around her fingers, licks her with a broad flat tongue through the aftershocks. Lydia rests her head against Allison’s leg once she’s settled down, and feels her hand patting her head.

 

Allison gently pushes Lydia off and props herself up with pillows against the headboard. She pulls Lydia up onto her thigh and brings their mouths together. Lydia balances herself with both hands on Allison’s shoulders and grinds down against her. Allison circles her nipples through her slip, before squeezing them gently, and then flicks her thumbs back and forth across them. As Lydia’s movements become more frenetic her moans become louder. Allison pulls the straps off her shoulders and reaches down for her breasts as Lydia sucks hard on her lower lip.

Most times she needs more than this, but Lydia’s been worked up all day so just rubbing against Allison’s leg is enough to get her off this time. Once they finally got all of the kids moved out of their house Lydia discovered that she quite likes to greet her climax loudly. Tonight is no exception as she cries out Allison’s name along with a string of Latin curse words. Finally she tips her head back lets out a breathy wail of “ecastor.”

Sometimes Allison cracks up at the absurdity of Lydia’s exclamations, ends up laughing her way down her torso and blowing raspberries on her plump belly. But today, with Lydia’s cheeks so flushed, the sweat at her temples, the wetness dripping down Allison’s thigh, she can only be grateful that she’s the one who gets to see her like this. The girl with a strong voice and unstoppable mind and that damn red braid is here, exposed for her, nothing hidden at all.

She’s Lydia Martin and she’s here. She’s here.

 

After their breathing evens out, Allison flips Lydia onto her back and drapes her long lean body over her soft curves. They lay together like that, just barely sliding against each other until Lydia gets squirmy and tells Allison that she’s ready to go again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to Lydia's (seemingly) non-consensual use of magic, sexual activity, physical abuse, and memory extraction on Peter Hale. Brief reference to a memory of teenage Peter being raped by Gerard Argent.

**Author's Note:**

> ***  
> If anyone is into this and wants to beta that would be fantastic. Send me a note through limenitis-arthemis.tumblr.com


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